Page 62 of The Thought of You

It’s sensual—she’s beyond my wildest dreams.

And she never ceases to amaze me.

By the time she completes the circular pattern, I’m dizzy as hell, even though I haven’t moved.

On the first note of the chorus from “Toxic,” she jumps to the side and tosses her hands up. “Follow my lead!” she calls over the music.

I mimic her moves, throwing my hands into the air, then back down to my hips. I match her gyrations from side to side, and then we switch directions, lurching to the back, where we repeat the same moves.

I’m a few steps behind her.

At one point, she no longer dances to the beat, which is clearly for my benefit.

The truth is, I have great rhythm when it comes to catching, throwing, and hitting a baseball, but this is a different story.

I’d be more graceful in fucking scuba flippers.

I’m tripping over my feet left and right as she gives me a crash course on dancing, but it doesn’t matter. I’m enjoying myself, mostly because she’s obviously having fun.

Addie laughs, and it exceeds the volume and beat of the fast-paced song. It’s a sound I wish I could capture, but even a replay from a recording wouldn’t do it justice. The real thing is unmatched, with its airy release.

If I could assign a color to her laugh, it’d be pink—fun, light, and feminine.

It’s the shade her cheeks adopt as she spins in my arms, her grip around my hand firm and strong. The way she hangs on to me borders on a cling, similar to the white-knuckled hold of an oar controlling a boat against a current.

But it’s not me who’s leading—it’s her.

“Catch me.” She gives me only a half second warning, then leaps into my arms, her legs spread into splits in midair with toes pointed like a pro.

The abrupt ending of the song is the complete opposite from how slowly she slides down my front until her feet flatten on the floor, but she doesn’t back away.

Lingering in my embrace, she licks her lips and peeks up at me through feathery eyelashes, her cheeks redder than before. Her nostrils flare as her gaze travels down to my lips, and she shudders.

If I weren’t holding her, I probably would’ve missed such a perfect physical response to me. I affect her, and it’s just as well, because she affects the hell out of me.

My hands float to her hips and pause, my fingers skittering over the waistband of her skintight leggings. I’m in baggy sweats, but if she keeps staring at me like this, they’re going to fit like leggings too.

She makes me so fucking hard without even trying.

I angle my head to the side, so the bill of my hat is out of the way. Then I dip it low with every intention of closing the distance between us, effectively losing my challenge to make her beg. It’s worth the loss.

The tips of my thumbs graze a sliver of her skin beneath her flowy shirt as my nose brushes the point of hers.

I’m so damn close, but she squeezes her eyes closed and releases a heavy sigh. “I can’t.”

My muscles lock up worse than they do after a hard workout, and my chest sinks.

“I’m not ready,” she whispers as she threads her fingers at the nape of my neck. “I want to be, but…”

“What is it, angel?”

“I still don’t know if I can trust you.” Her lips twist as if the confession tastes sour on her tongue. It’s no fucking treat to hear it, either. “If we’re going to be more than just a casual fling like you say you want, then I need to be able to trust you.”

My swallow doesn’t go down easily. In fact, none of this is easy.

If there was a particular moment in history that she could point to in order to tell me when she started hating me, then I could apologize, make things right, tear my heart out to show her how serious I am about us.

But without that, my plan to show her I’m a stand-up guy is going to take more time, and I was serious when I told her I’m a patient man.

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